


Wear It Like A Bruise

by alexenglish



Category: Marvel, One Direction (Band)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Canon, Exes, Genderqueer Character, Light Angst, Marvel Universe, Other, Post-Break Up, Sharing Clothes, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 00:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13582356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: Five “coincidental” instances of Zayn wearing Wade’s clothes and one completely planned, masterfully executed instance of Wade wearing Zayn’s.





	Wear It Like A Bruise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carrigan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrigan/gifts).



> do you ever find yourself writing something that you're just like wow that definitely veered off the path I initially set for it. I'll admit that happens to me frequently, but it especially happened with this. 
> 
> so I have basic working knowledge of Deadpool canon, but it's definitely lacking depth. hopefully there aren't any egregious errors here. I will say I highkey headcanon Wade as genderqueer and you can pry that from my cold dead fingers, thank you very much. 
> 
> thanks to Steph for the moral support. and thanks to Bianca for allowing me to constantly demand validation, this wouldn't exist if it wasn't for you.

**five.**

Zayn sees the footage on accident.

It’s three or so hours into a studio session and they’re on break, waiting for Malay to get done with a very important phone call of some sort. Zayn’s tired -- the kind of tired that makes him a little hazy, makes writing that much harder -- feet kicked up on the chair nearest to him as he pulls up Twitter.

Deadpool’s trending.

Zayn doesn’t think twice about clicking it, there’s always a superhero trending. Deadpool trends a decent amount on account of being terrible at damage control, and wreaking more havoc than necessary when stopping petty crime, and always saying stupid shit during interviews -- like _living_ with his foot in his mouth. And sometimes he does shit like visits every single children’s hospital in New York, and makes surprise appearances at birthday parties, and rescues kittens from trees, and walks old ladies across the street.

So really, it could be anything.

Zayn isn’t necessarily prepared for the first post to be a video. Or for it to autoplay. Something on an overpass that’s goes blurry as it zooms in. Deadpool is fighting a group of people wearing ski masks in the middle of the motorway. There’s an overturned semi not far from them, construction shit all over the place, a few smashed cars, no bystanders that he can see. Whoever the arseholes are have to be other mutants, or whatever classification of non-human allows for them to chuck an entire motorbike at Deadpool without a second thought.

Deadpool dodges that easily, but falters immediately, staggering. When he turns, Zayn can see a metal pipe from god knows where sticking out of his side. A sick feeling wells in Zayn’s stomach even though his knows it’ll heal, it doesn’t _matter_ \-- the pipe unbalances Deadpool and he’s too busy trying to pull it out to notice one of the mutants come up to him and get their hands around the pipe.

Deadpool’s head snaps up as the mutant grabs it, but it’s already too late. His feet lift off the ground and mutant swings, flinging Deadpool off the end of the pipe and off the side of the overpass. Zayn drops his phone onto the table as Deadpool disappears out of the edge of frame, hands going numb.

“Sorry,” he says, as everyone in the room turns to look at him. He snatches his phone back up, fighting past the lump in his throat as his brain supplies him with a visual of what the landing might have looked like. “Sorry, I-I need a smoke. I’ll be back.”

Griff frowns, gaze sweeping over Zayn, “You good?”

“No,” Zayn admits. “Just. Twitter -- I need a smoke.” Griff makes a move to get up, but Zayn shakes his head quickly, edging out of the room. “Alone. Please.”

There’s still a dubious look on Griff’s face, but Zayn’s out of there before he can say anything else. He pauses outside the door, taking a moment to breathe. There’s something deeply masochistic about refreshing the tag, but he does. The video he watched is gone, but there’s another one under it, marked for mature content this time.

Zayn’s throat closes up all over again as he goes to his homepage. He follows way too many fucking Deadpool and superhero accounts, it’s all over his timeline. He ignores all the posts and tweets a skull emoji before shoving his phone into his pocket and heading outside.

The street is mostly empty. This studio isn’t one he usually uses. It’s small, nondescript, with a brick face and a glass door with the name in sans font stickered onto the front. He goes to the end of the building and leans against the wall, as far from the door as he can be before he lights up, and waits.

His hands shake through his first smoke, video replaying in his head over and over, mind refusing to stop filling in the gaps afterwards; Deadpool’s broken body lying on the ground somewhere under the overpass, waiting for his bones to mend before he can stand up.

Wade’s told Zayn how much it hurts before.

Everyone thinks the healing factor keeps mutants from _feeling_ it -- and maybe for some it does -- but Wade said he feels every break healing and every organ closing and every wound stitching itself back up. Tightening and rearranging and mending, and his body’s confusion during the reversal.

It used to fascinate Zayn, but that was back when Wade was a dude in a mask. Back when there was a separation. When Deadpool wasn’t a person he knew. When _Wade_ wasn’t --

Zayn flicks his filter away, scrubbing his hands over his face before clenching and unclenching his fists. They’re still numb from anxiety, still trembling from nerves. He lights another cigarette and resists the urge to look at his phone.

He’s nearly down to the filter on his second smoke when he hears the whistling. He should probably be more ashamed of the way he perks up, whole body lifting off the wall, but he’s not.

“ _Darling_ , you rang?” Zayn hears Wade say, just around the corner. Zayn can hear his scabbards hitting the brick, the leather of his suit as he settles against the wall. It’s a relief he doesn’t have to look at Wade yet.

Or, well, Wade’s mask.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Zayn admits, with a rough laugh. The relief is warm and palpable. He can feel his fingers again. He hates how obvious it is.

“I shouldn’t have,” Wade scoffs. “Since you left out two-thirds of my Bat Signal, but I decided to be gracious and get the ball rolling anyway. Gotta start somewhere.”

Zayn snorts, ignoring how his belly goes warm. Given the timing of his tweet, some of his followers will probably make the connection, but he didn’t want it to be super obvious -- and he absolutely refuses to tweet a poop emoji when he's in distress. Either way, he doesn’t know how to tell Wade how much it means that he came, so the silence lulls heavily.

“Y’alright?” Zayn asks, once he’s done with his second cigarette and flicks it away. It lands in a puddle nearby, soaking up some water. He asks quietly so there’s nothing in his tone to give him away.

“Waiting for some of the old bits and pieces to slot back together,” Wade replies casually. There’s a grunt and some crunching, followed by popping. It sounds like his spine. Zayn really doesn’t want to know. “But I’ll be a real boy again soon. Well -- not a boy, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s good.” Zayn means it. He feels heat rise to his cheeks, but he forges on, staring intently at the tops of his shoes. “Saw the video, like. Kinda freaked me out, y’know. I just wanted to check in.”

“You’ve got my digits, baby boy,” Wade says, snorting. “Coulda shot off an ol’ SMS instead of advertising it all over Twitter.”

Zayn hears Wade push off the wall, but he doesn’t move. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as Wade’s arm nudges his. Zayn shifts so he’s leaning on his shoulder, facing Wade. The anxiety of the moment is definitely dulled by the fact that he’s staring at white eye holes instead of warm, familiar brown eyes.

It helps and hurts in equal measure.

“Didn’t know if it was the same,” Zayn admits. There wouldn’t be any reason for Wade to tell him if it changed, either. This is the first time they’ve talked in something like, six months. Zayn’s genuinely fucking surprised Wade is here.

“Welp, now you know,” Wade says. “No more public cries for recognition, alright?”

“How’d you find me?” Zayn asks sharply. Since Wade’s gunna be a prick and all.

“Did you know that you’re wearing my jacket?” Wade replies, ignoring Zayn.

“It’s comfortable,” Zayn says, stomach knotting up as his cheeks go warm.

It _is_ Wade’s. A soft brown jacket with a thick lining. He’s been wearing it for the last week or so. He didn’t pick it up out of his closet simply _because_ it was Wade’s, though. He just wanted to wear it. It looks nice on him and he’s warm.

“I bought that for 35 dollars at a thrift shop,” Wade adds. “Aren’t popstars supposed to wear Givenchy, or Gucci, or that one French designer no one pronounces right? Not Old Navy hand-me-downs stolen from their exes.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn snorts. “I didn’t steal it. You left it.”

“And you didn’t return it,” Wade says.

“Like I’d know where to find you,” Zayn retorts, unable to keep the edge of out his voice. He should have known this was going to happen. Wade’s always been a prick, but it usually isn’t aimed at Zayn. Now that there’s no reason to be nice, well...

“That’s not really my issue,” Wade replies, shrugging easily. He says it like it’s funny, like it doesn’t matter.

“Cheers,” Zayn says, pushing off the wall and shoving his hands into his pockets. What the fuck ever.

“That’s my jacket!” Wade calls, right as Zayn tugs open the door to the studio.

“Didn’t bring another,” Zayn tells him, going inside.

Zayn walks to the back slowly. He tells himself he’s not disappointed Wade doesn’t follow to get the last word in.

 

 

 

**four.**

On a normal day, Zayn might have noticed, but he’s sick and miserable, and therefore caught completely unaware when Wade shows up in his living room unannounced.

He’s in full Deadpool regalia, carrying plastic bags from the corner store. It’s far too easy to picture Wade waiting in line to check out whilst people around him put him on their Snapchat. Ridiculous.

Zayn can see the edge of a tissue box through the plastic.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, pausing the telly and sitting up. It takes some time, body still achy from whatever bullshit flu he managed to catch even though he hardly leaves the house. The fleece blanket he was snuggled under falls to his waist. The air feels cool against his skin, he didn’t realize he was sweating. Guess his fever broke.

“What’s a little B and E between exes?” Wade asks, with a shrug. The leather of his suit creaks obnoxiously. Zayn can tell he’s grinning underneath his mask.

“Why are you here, Wade?” he asks, standing up slowly. He unfurls a bit, trying to coax his circulation to life, but he doesn’t stretch all the way, still fever sore and weak. His head is aching. He hopes there’s some Ibuprofen in that bag.

“Heard you were sick, baby boy.” Wade gives Zayn an obvious once over. Zayn’s too poorly to wish he had a shirt on. “Bitching all over the internet. Such an obvious cry for attention, I couldn’t ignore it.”

“Stalking my Twitter?” Zayn asks, checking his phone notifications. The first page is a mess of messages and emails, and way too many people telling him they wish he felt better. Like, he appreciates it but just looking at them makes him feel even more exhausted.

“You were trending,” Wade says, as Zayn heads to the kitchen.

“No, I wasn’t,” Zayn replies. He retweeted sick art someone had done of his January Rolling Stone cover, saying he was a bit poorly and it made him feel better. That’s it.

He’s not going to have this argument, though. It’s not like he has any room to talk. He still has the notifications on for Deadpool’s official Twitter _and_ Wade’s less-official-but-still-official Twitter.

When he gets to the kitchen, there are bags full of Powerade on the counter. It takes a minute for Wade to follow but when he does, he’s met with Zayn’s unimpressed stare.

“Hydration is important.” Wade puts the bag in his hand on the counter and pulls out the biggest bottle of Ibuprofen in existence, shoving it at Zayn. “Got red and green ‘cause they’re your favorite colors, but everyone knows blue is superior so I mostly got blue.”

Blue is Zayn’s favorite, but he grabs the nearest red pointedly, “Thanks.”

He grabs a water bottle as well, which is what he made the trip for in the first place, and immediately goes back to the living room. Walking takes a lot out of him still, apparently.

“You have my name on your ass,” Wade says, after a moment. The back of Zayn’s neck flushes as he sits down, arranging the blanket over himself again. Wade’s hovering at the arm of the couch, looking fucking ridiculous stood in the middle of Zayn’s flat, fully strapped and suited.

“If you’re staying, at least take your harness off,” Zayn replies, jerking his chin at the swords strapped to Wade’s back.

“ _At least take your harness off_ \--” Wade’s voice is high-pitched and mocking, but he does what Zayn asks, dumping his swords in Zayn’s chair. In a normal tone, he repeats, “You have my name on your ass.”

“I do,” Zayn sighs.

“Why do you have my customized Victoria’s Secret sweatpants?” Wade asks, throwing himself onto Zayn’s couch. Out of reach, but still on the same piece of furniture as Zayn. It counts as a win.

“Why do you have customized Victoria’s Secret sweatpants?” Zayn asks sharply, since Wade’s question isn’t a question he can answer. Why does he have half the shit he does? Wade practically lived at his flat for months and months, left his belongings everywhere. Not exactly Zayn’s fault.

“Everyone had customized Victoria’s Secret sweatpants like a decade ago,” Wade says.

Zayn knows for a _fact_ that isn’t true. “I didn’t,” he argues.

“Everyone who isn’t a boy had customized Victoria’s Secret sweatpants like a decade ago,” Wade amends. “Not Victoria Secret the brand, obviously. Customizable sweatpants tend to be off brand, but it’s easier to say Victoria Secret sweatpants for the mental image. ‘PINK’ in big letters across so many asses for so long. Anyway --”

Wade shifts to look at Zayn, folding his arms over his chest. The effect of what might be a glare is lost in the stupid white eye holes of his mask. Zayn stopped being intimidated by that mask a while ago.

Wade’s suit creaks obnoxiously once again, reminding Zayn should reinstate that rule he made forever ago -- no superhero costumes in the house. Well, it’s still instated, he just hasn’t had to reinforce it in awhile.

“You left them,” Zayn says, ignoring the spiel and shrugging. “Along with a whole bunch of other shit that’s taking up closet space. Do you want to go through it? Take some to the Avenger’s tower, or wherever you’re staying?”

“I’m not an Avenger in this universe,” Deadpool scoffs, but he doesn’t bother giving Zayn an answer. They both know it’s a frail dig for information; there are so many other questions Zayn won’t ask.

Like, what does Wade do in his spare time now that he’s not spending it with Zayn? And, has he met anyone he’s willing to keep his mask off for? And, does he sleep next to anyone? If he does, does he sleep without his weapons because there’s a ‘no guns in the bedroom’ rule?

“Not even for roleplay, baby?” Wade had asked when Zayn told him. It was the first time he’d spent the night, the first time they’d slept in Zayn’s bed together. He had his suit on and his mask off, and a smirk that made Zayn want to kiss him.

Zayn wants to know why it’s only been a week since they’ve seen each other even though Wade had well and truly ghosted him before. Weak arse excuse for a break-up and then fucking gone.

Now he’s here, pulling a Mary Poppins with his bag of get-well goodies like none of it happened, and Zayn’s confused.

“Are you staying or going?” Zayn asks. It’s all he has the energy for.

Wade picks up the remote and hits play, leaning back and getting comfortable.

Zayn stares at him.

After a moment, Wade lets out an exaggerated sigh and unclips his thigh holsters, sliding his guns on the coffee table before sitting forward and reaching around, dropping his dimensional storage satchel next to his guns. He sits back again. Zayn keeps staring.

“Fuck off,” Wade says, but he stands and unclips his utility belt, lovingly laying it over the arm of the chair his swords are on before sitting.

“Wasn’t so hard,” Zayn mumbles, once Wade throws himself onto the couch again.

“You know I hate being apart from my weapons,” Wade says. Zayn can hear the pout in his voice clear as anything. It’s almost impossible for Zayn to keep the smile off his face, but he manages.

“You’ll live.”

“Unfortunately,” Wade replies, turning up the telly.

Zayn’s binging Ancient Aliens, which Wade loves and hates in equal measure, which means Wade absolutely will not stop running his mouth about it.

“This is so geared towards humans, it’s disgusting,” he says. Zayn doesn’t bother reminding him that he was born a human, there’s really no use trying to stop any tirades so Zayn zones out and lets him go. Wade’s perfectly capable of arguing with himself for hours thanks to that whacky, multi-faceted personality of his.

Zayn really wants to lie down. It’s difficult to keep himself upright and he needs a damn nap. After barely any internal debate, Zayn decides to lay his head on Wade’s leg, curling up with his eyes closed.

“Hey so,” Wade says. Zayn can feel how tense he is. “I know that pretty much all the nonexistent pillows on your couch are exceptionally firm and covered in leather, but that’s my thigh.”

“I know,” Zayn mumbles, body heavy. He won’t be moving anytime soon.

He could make a snappy remark about how Wade is the one sitting on his couch and keeping Zayn from lying down properly, but he barely has the energy to keep his eyes open. He drifts off to the voice over talking about megalithic monuments and their interconnected energy, awareness fading in and out between ‘experts’ and musical interludes.

At one point, he hears the drag of leather and vaguely registers the way his brain hopes it’s Wade taking off his mask. He thinks about rolling onto his back to check, but he can’t even convince himself to open his eyes properly.

Fingers stroke through his hair tentatively, stopping at the end of the first pass. Zayn keeps his breathing steady. There’s a beat and then another, and then he feels it again, more deliberate this time. There’s no bulky glove on Wade’s hand. Just his bare fingers playing with Zayn’s hair gently.

Zayn falls back to sleep with his heart aching softly in his chest.

 

 

**three.**

Zayn doesn’t understand why this is happening to him. He’s a good person. A common adjective people use to describe him is _gentle_. He pays taxes in a country he isn’t even a citizen of, and makes charitable contributions, and stops for fans on the street even when they’re the ones who tend to exhibit stalker behavior.

Sure, he’s made mistakes. No one is perfect. But there’s really no reason for the universe to throw him into the same Thai place at half one _in the morning_ as Wade Wilson.

It’s a Tuesday night. There’s absolutely nothing happening. And here they are. The same Thai place.

It doesn’t seem like Wade notices Zayn came in at all. Zayn stands a good meter and a half behind Wade, contemplating whether or not he should say something. He doesn’t really want to interrupt whatever chat up line Wade’s feeding the cashier.

Zayn knows it’s a chat up line because everything Wade says is a chat up line, and he’s doing that thing where he cocks his hip and leans in a bit to show that he’s really paying attention, nodding along and softening his voice to a slightly higher pitch when he talks. Soothing, like. Zayn isn’t sure why it has any affect on anyone, but it works.

Definitely worked on Zayn.

Seems to be working on the cashier, if the lad’s wide eyes and pink cheeks are anything to go by. Maybe he’s starstruck, Zayn reasons. It’s not everyday that Deadpool wanders into humble food establishments in full costume, half a dozen guns strapped to him.

On anyone else it would be an arrogant display of power -- okay, on Wade it is that, definitely -- but Wade probably filled his dimensional storage satchel with comic books, and garden gnomes, and DC superhero logoed inflatable latex balls. He probably didn’t want to dig past his junk to find his guns if he needed them.

Zayn doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this. It’s a post-break-up unspoken rule: he’s not supposed to contemplate his ex’s habits whilst his ex is stood in front of him. Or at all, actually.

He’s not supposed to be wearing his ex’s cosy cashmere jumper either, he thinks, as he curls his hands into his sleeves. In his defense, he’d forgotten it was Wade’s. He stole it when they _first_ started dating. Wore it so much it became his, but if Wade recognizes it, well --

Three plastic bags with boxes of assorted size land on the counter and Wade spins, looking directly at Zayn as he grabs them up. “C’mon, then.”

Zayn blinks at him.

“Got you some food,” he says, shoulders slumped so he’s nonthreatening. Full body pout, kinda. He presses the toe of his boot into the linoleum floor shyly.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Did you see me headed here?”

“Can’t prove it,” Wade says, perking up.

“Well, since you’re buying,” Zayn mumbles, shrugging and turning so he’s the first out the door. It’s important to appear aloof, Zayn tells himself, even as his stomach tightens into knots and flutters, all butterfly wings.

Wade follows quickly, sidling up beside him. He nudges their arms together until Zayn looks up at him reluctantly. He forgets how much larger Wade is than him. Normally, but especially in those thick soled Deadpool boots.

“Another thrift store shirt,” Wade says, satisfaction coloring his tone so heavily the back of Zayn’s neck goes warm. “You know, I like this whole dressed down look. Makes you more accessible for the common man. Green’s a lovely color on you, baby boy.”

Zayn wishes he didn’t know Wade well enough to identify his microexpressions underneath an entire layer of flexible leather, but he can and he knows Wade’s face is smug as hell.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zayn says, dismissively, ignoring the way warmth curls up at the bottom of his spine. It’s useless to tell himself not to fall for Wade’s charms, he knows, but he told himself anyway. He’s not fighting it, not in the least, but he _has_ told himself.

They walk the block back to Zayn’s building in relative silence. Wade whistles Pillowtalk perfectly in tune, arm brushing Zayn’s every so often, but they don’t talk. It’s fine. Their silences are always somehow comfortable, even when they’re recently reconnected exes who haven’t held a proper conversation yet.

Weirdly, Zayn can’t find it in him to be annoyed when the doorman to his building greets them with a, “Hello, mister Malik. Nice to see you again, mister Deadpool.”

It _is_ nice to see mister Deadpool again.

Wade hands over the bags once they get to Zayn’s flat. Zayn takes them to the living room, half listening to Wade unstrap his weapons with a smile. He’s muttering to himself as he does, but he’s doing it, and Zayn counts that as a win.

Zayn’s breaking apart some bud when Wade wanders in, still in his suit but weaponless and bootless.

“It’s good t’ know you wear Hanes like the rest of us,” Zayn quips, gesturing to Wade’s black socks with his chin. “Makes you more accessible for the common man.”

“You’re exactly as funny as you think you are,” Wade says, sounding amused. Zayn counts that as a win, too.

Wade sits a cushion down from Zayn, pulling the bags closer as he watches Zayn fingers as he nimbly rolls a joint.

“Want some?” Zayn asks him, smiling slightly. “It’s a sativa.” Indica strains make Wade’s pain worse. Or, heightens his awareness of his pain. Either way, he doesn’t smoke indicas. Neither does Zayn, not really.

“Well, if it’s a sativa,” Wade snorts, as Zayn finishes.

“It’d be a waste of perfectly good munchies to eat all this sober,” Zayn says sagely, burning the end of the joint with his lighter.

There’s nothing to be done about the way Zayn’s heart jumps as he watches Wade unstrap his gloves and tug each finger primly, slowly revealing his wrist, then the back of his hand, then his knuckles. Zayn always did react like some Regency era idiot seeing an ankle for the first time whenever the Deadpool suit came off.

The pounding in his chest gets worse when Wade pushes up the bottom of his mask and folds it over his nose. It’s hard for Zayn to pretend he doesn’t want to stare. The skin on Wade’s face and hands shifts subtly, a shimmering mirage, scars tearing open and healing and tearing and healing -- constantly moving. Zayn isn’t used to it anymore, it keeps catching his eye, tempting him to look and keep looking.

He lights up and lets the smoke fog his vision.

There’s food to distract Zayn from watching Wade’s mouth when he hands over the joint, but he watches anyway. Watches the way Wade’s throat catches when he inhales and the way his mouth goes soft when he exhales, the way his tongue chases the taste before he hands the joint back.

The white eye holes of his mask meet Zayn’s gaze, but all Zayn can do is shrug. He’s already feeling syrupy from the bud, knows that if he tries to excuse himself it’ll be some weak excuse, or a ridiculous one, or not an excuse at all.

 _Just want to look at you_.

They pass the joint back and forth until it’s too small to smoke properly, and then lay out the food like some sort of feast. There’s all Zayn’s favorites, words scribbled on the lids letting him know that Wade remembered how spicy he likes things as well. Zayn doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t say anything while he passes Wade his own order and grabs the sticky rice, pushing the jasmine rice at Wade with a sneer.

It’s rhythmic, almost depressingly domestic in its normalcy.

They used to do this all the time. Nights when Zayn didn’t sleep and Wade was done patrolling, one of them would run for copious amounts of take out. They’d smoke and eat, and cuddle, and eventually have some sort of lazy fuck on the couch or the floor.

They polish off every last bit of food. It’s a 60-40… 65-35 split, really. Zayn pushes what he can’t finish toward Wade, lets him eat the rest. Wade even takes the containers to the kitchen when he’s finished.

Zayn rolls another joint while he’s gone, and doesn’t even have to ask Wade to smoke it with him. All he does is hold it out, and Wade takes it.

“How’d you know I was going to that place?” Zayn asks, once they’re two-thirds into the joint and the silence is as comfortable as it is stifling.

“Guessed,” Wade says, voice scratchy as he exhales. “Saw you leave, go in that direction. Thought W-W-Z-C: ‘what would Zayn crave’ -- at nearly two AM, that is. Figured Thai, even though everyone knows Thai is evening food and --”

“Falafels are post-midnight snacks, I know,” Zayn chuckles, putting the joint out in the ashtray when Wade hands it back. Wade watches him do it, mouth twisting into something unreadable.

The bit of tension deflates when Wade looks up at Zayn and shrugs, giving Zayn a toothy grin that’s not nearly as convincing as it could be. “I was right.”

“Why are you hanging out around my flat?” Zayn asks, trying not choke on his heart as he very carefully grabs Wade’s wrist.

Wade drops his chin and stares at their hands.

“Why are you wearing my shirt?” Wade asks. He flexes his hand a bit, but doesn’t shake Zayn off. His skin is rough as Zayn traces his thumb along the leather. The white noise in Zayn’s ears is overwhelming.

“Why won’t you answer my question?”

“Why do you want me to?” Wade asks. This time he does tug his hand away, but it’s easy enough that it doesn’t hurt Zayn’s feelings or anything.

“Why’d you disappear?” Zayn can hear how thick his voice is, but he doesn’t care. He’s stoned, and tired, and he wants Wade’s cooperation.

“Why do you keep asking questions I don’t want to answer?” Wade demands, frustrated. Zayn expects him to shift backwards, or scoot away, or get up, but he doesn’t. He leans in, gives himself over to Zayn the tiniest bit.

“Why don’t you _want_ to answer them?” Breaking the rules of their game, he adds, “You have answers, you just don’t wanna give ‘em.”

“Zee,” Wade says weakly, like a plead.

Zayn can’t help it, he darts in and kisses Wade’s mouth, heart thudding hard as a hammer in his chest. He tips into Wade with his center of gravity all off, still kissing, hand on Wade’s thigh for balance.

Wade already has a hand on Zayn’s waist to steady him. He’s already pulling Zayn in as well as he can when they’re sat next to each other. He’s already sliding his hand into Zayn’s hair, cupping his head, kissing back hungrily.

They break apart after a moment, panting. Zayn’s too overwhelmed to meet Wade’s eyes, so he watches the way Wade’s skin shifts and flows, breaks apart and heals. He watches the pulse in Wade’s neck, so content that he can see it. He takes a bracing breath and straddles Wade’s lap as quickly as he can while remaining graceful, hands gripping Wade’s shoulders.

Wade’s already waiting for him, closing the spread of his thighs so Zayn fits, getting his hands on Zayn’s waist as soon as Zayn is sat down. He’s already tilting his head up, already pulling Zayn in for another kiss.

His lips are rough and chapped, but his tongue is soft and his hands are warm when they slide under Zayn’s shirt. It’s always about contrasts with Wade. Crude humor, tender voice. Immensely perceptive, idiotic beyond belief. Violent outbursts, protective to a fault. Wildly defensive, gently understanding.

Zayn slides his hands up Wade’s neck, feels the hummingbird-quick flutter of his heart, and reaches around to unstrap his mask.

Wade jerks back so quickly humiliation floods Zayn’s entire body, leaving his face burning and a hard lump in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, dropping his hands. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t --” Wade catches Zayn’s wrists loosely.

They stare at each other for a moment. Zayn can feel his pulse press itself to the surface of his skin where Wade is holding him, like its desperate to be closer to Wade. His chest is aching, tight and all wrong.

He should have asked to take Wade’s mask off. He should have known he’d have to ask, but he didn’t think about it. He assumed that he could based solely on the fact that it’s been so _easy_ to be around Wade again. It doesn’t feel like so much time has passed, but it has.

It’s been months and Wade completely removed himself from Zayn’s life. They dated for six months, and Wade left, and all Zayn got was whatever Deadpool was doing -- whatever made the media, whatever was available for public consumption.

Six months passed and now Wade’s here again. Showing up where Zayn wants him to be, making an effort, bringing him take out, _kissing Zayn back_.

Wade’s here, but Zayn’s staring at the white eye holes of a mask Wade refuses to take off -- that _Deadpool_ refuses to take off.

Zayn’s completely shut out. He has been for half a year, he just didn’t want to accept it.

“You should go,” Zayn says, swallowing thickly. It’s almost disappointing when the grip on his wrists goes loose, allowing Zayn to pull away and stand. A hot, tight feeling presses into his temple, but he ignores it. It’s always easier to ignore it.

“ _Zee_.”

It’s soft, softer than Zayn expects, but Zayn shouldn’t care. He should have stopped caring a while ago. He turns away, grabbing up his pack of smokes and checking his phone. It’s nearly half three.

“You know where the door is,” he says, still not looking back. “Catch you later, DP.”

 

 

**two.**

“This is starting to get out of hand, baby boy,” Wade says.

This time Zayn’s less surprised and definitely more unimpressed. “What? You breaking into my fucking house to spy on me?” he asks, metaphorical hackles raised.

“Whoa, hey, no need to get testy.” When Zayn turns around, Wade has his palms up in a placating gesture. His mask is rolled up, Zayn can see how wide he’s smiling. “All I’m doing is observing, and what I’m observing is you spending a lot of time in my clothing.”

“This isn’t yours,” Zayn snaps. Technically, it was. For an entire day. Until Wade broke up with him and Zayn kept it.

Kept it _deliberately_. Out of spite.

Wade might have left clothing all over Zayn’s flat that Zayn never bothered to box up or get rid of, but this shirt was reclaimed on purpose. A red and black tie-dye that looked stunningly like Wade’s suit and Wade had wanted to take it with him. So Zayn kept it.

It’s his art shirt. One of them, at least. Well, any shirt is his art shirt if he’s lazy enough, but he has half a dozen he keeps solely for the purpose of doing art in them. Which is why he’s wearing this one. Because he’s doing art.

“Looks like mine,” Wade says, gesturing down to his suit.

Zayn’s so frustrated he nearly snaps his paintbrush in half. “What’re you doing here, DP?”

“Why are you calling me that?” Wade counters.

Zayn chucks his brush into his water and stands, whirling on Wade. The way he’s stood in the doorway of Zayn’s room is immensely fucking obnoxious. Leaning against the frame with his hands on his belt and his ankles crossed.

There aren’t any weapons on him, his utility belt and boots are off.

“What are you doing here?” Zayn asks again.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Wade asks in reply.

“Why are you trying to contact me publicly?”

Twitter, Instagram. When they were dating they’d always tweet back and forth, like each other’s shit, but it’s been different. Their fans have been going mad, thrilled that they’re interacting again.

“Since privately isn’t working,” Wade says, grinning sharply. “Have to get your attention _somehow_.”

“You always have my attention,” Zayn tells him flatly.

“Don’t sound too miserable about it, baby boy.” Wade’s not smiling now. His voice is soft as he looks away, mouth twisting.

Zayn would feel bad but he’s still looking at those stupid white eye holes, not allowed to see Wade’s face. That’s the issue, isn’t it? Wade wants to be up here and act like he’s still a part of Zayn’s life without letting Zayn be a part of his life.

And his _whole_ life, not just Deadpool.

Deadpool is only part of who Wade is. There’s so much more to knowing Wade, having Wade around, being with Wade. Zayn can’t settle for Deadpool -- refuses to.

“What are you doing here?” Zayn asks, for a third time.

“Wanted to see what you were wearing,” Wade says. “Duh.”

“What?” Zayn asks, blinking at him.

“If you haven’t noticed, our interactions all have a similar motif.” Wade gestures to Zayn’s shirt, corner of his mouth tugging up in a smile. “Your clothes -- sorry, _my_ clothes.”

“This isn’t yours,” Zayn repeats, but Wade’s right. Every time they’ve seen each other, Zayn’s been wearing something Wade would consider his at some point in time. “And anyway, that’s a coincidence.”

“Or, _is it_?” Wade says pointedly.

Zayn doesn’t get it. “Can you just -- shut up,” he sighs. “Okay, you’ve seen my shirt, happy?”

“No,” Wade says, shaking his head. “We’re supposed to talk about something.”

“You and I? Talk about something?” Zayn laughs. It sounds a bit mean. “Sure.”

“Hey!” Wade has the nerve to sound affronted. “We talk. We’re capable of it. We’re not completely inept, and I’m not a total dick despite my current characterization.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“ _Well_ \--”

“Will you just --”

“Ask me anything,” Wade says quickly, pushing off the doorframe. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Will you take off your mask?” Zayn asks, without thinking about it. There are definitely better questions he could ask. At least four better questions he could ask, even, but it’s the first thing that pops in his head. He wants to see Wade’s eyes.

“Oh my fucking _god_ ,” Wade says, eyes narrowing. “That’s not a question. That’s a command disguised as a question. Ask another.”

“Why won’t you take off your mask?” Zayn tilts his chin stubbornly, staring Wade down.

It takes a minute for Wade to answer, but he does, “You don’t need to see my face.”

Zayn’s heart pounds hard as understanding sparks deep inside him. “You’re an idiot,” he says sharply. “You know I don’t give a shit.”

“It’s been a long time,” Wade snaps defensively. “Your brain romanticizes memories to the point of being unrecognizable. I’m much fucking uglier in person.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Zayn sighs. There’s a headache forming behind his temples. “You’re always making yourself feel like shit for no reason.”

“My face is a reason,” Wade mumbles, rolling his eyes.

“You know I don’t give a shit,” Zayn repeats. Yeah, sure, Wade isn’t the prettiest artificially engineered mutant to ever grace the Earth. The whole damaging-repairing skin _thing_ takes a bit to get used to. A while, maybe.

But Wade’s lovely and gentle, and Zayn can see who he was before sneak to the surface until other aspects of his personality vie to express themselves. And even then, all those other aspects are what make Wade _Wade_.

And Zayn always tried so hard to make sure Wade knew Zayn wanted all of him, so this? This is massive bullshit.

“You _should_ ,” Wade says flatly. “You should give a shit that your partner looks like pair of saggy testicals.”

Zayn stares at Wade. “I don’t _care_ ,” he repeats, flabbergasted. “What in all our months of dating ever made you believe I’d care?”

“You’re the most beautiful person on this goddamn planet -- you should be dating models and pop stars, not --” Wade gestures to his face, circling it quickly with his finger over and over -- “You should have someone to walk red carpets with you. The only arm candy I qualify as is saladitos, mi amado.”

“You’re impossible,” Zayn says, then groans loudly. Everything falls together in his head. How obvious it is is jarring. “Please don’t tell me that’s why you left.”

When Wade doesn’t answer, Zayn reminds himself to breathe even though he wants to _scream_. Of all the idiotic, downright terrible ideas Wade would get in his goddamn head.

“Zee --”

“Don’t,” Zayn warns. “Just please tell me that’s not why you left. Tell me it was something else.”

“I could tell you whatever you’d like to hear, baby boy,” Wade says, grinning again. It’s a little too manic, wide and tight, but it’s Wade -- Zayn’s learned to roll with it.

“Tell me you didn’t fuck off due to some misplaced sense of nobility.”

“I didn’t fuck off due to some misplaced sense of nobility,” Wade replies dutifully.

“You didn’t leave because you thought you were too ugly for me.” Zayn can’t believe he has to say this. This is the stupidest thing in the history of stupid things.

“I did not leave because I thought I was too ugly for you,” Wade says, but his grin falters the tiniest bit.

“Why’d you leave?” Zayn asks. “No bullshit.”

They stare each other down. Deadpool fully suited in front of Zayn whilst he’s wearing a shirt dyed to look like said suit, surrounded by paint and the smell of turpentine. A full minute goes by. Neither of them move.

“ _God_.” Wade groans and throws up his hands.

Zayn grins victoriously. It feels a little hollow, considering Wade’s reluctance, but it counts for something.

“I can’t even lie to you,” Wade says. “I can’t tell you it’s not working out because we don’t have anything in common -- because we have _everything_ in common. Can’t tell you I left you to have a raunchy threesome with Louis Tomlinson and Bucky Barnes -- Bucky would _not_ \--”

“ _Wade_ \--”

“Can’t say you got bored of Zayn,” Wade mutters, talking to himself now. “Can’t say you stopped caring about Zayn. Can’t say you got distracted by anyone else --” Zayn’s heart starts pounding so hard he’s afraid he’s going to choke on it as Wade goes on, “Who could possibly distract you from Zayn? There’s no one, _nothing_. Can’t say you stopped loving Zayn. You can’t lie to him, Wade.”

Zayn’s stomach tightens into a knot so tight he thinks he’s going to be ill.

“Please, stop,” Zayn says weakly.

Wade snaps out of it, blinking at him rapidly.

“I can explain.”

It definitely doesn’t look like Wade can explain, which is why Zayn asks, “Can you? Right now, if I needed you to -- like, _needed_ you to -- can you explain what the fuck is going through your head?”

Knowing Wade the way he does, it feels cruel to say it, but Zayn knows that some of the shit Wade says isn’t what he means or isn’t how he means it. Like his mind doesn’t keep all his thoughts in the same place, they’re all separate and individual, and Wade has to gather them together himself without his brain’s help.

If people’s brains were boards and their thoughts were colored yarn, there would be certain colors for certain ideas, and all the same colors would converge at the same point to catalogue every thought connected to every idea. Legible and as simple as thoughts and ideas can be, but all Wade’s colors are different and all his yarn is knotted.

The metaphor is getting away from Zayn, but the point is: it’s obvious Wade has a heap of string that he hasn’t bothered to untangle. As much as Zayn really, truly _needs_ to know where the hell Wade’s head’s at, he knows Wade doesn’t even know. He can’t ask for answers Wade doesn’t have.

Zayn lets himself step into Wade’s space, and press a kiss to his scarred cheek. When Zayn pulls away, his face is hot and Wade’s watching him with wide eyes.

“Figure it out, yeah?” That’s what Zayn needs. Wade nods, the tiniest bit. It’s enough to make Zayn’s stomach swoop as he leaves the room.

By the time Zayn gets to the kitchen, he knows Deadpool’s gone.

 

 

**one.**

Pounding on Zayn’s window wakes him up.

His heart jumps with uncertainty as he jerks out of a stress dream where he had two minutes to find the hotel room he was supposed to record in whilst avoiding men in black who were looking to question him about Harry Styles’ interstellar resident status.

Not much different from when he was in the band, but serious enough that he wakes up disoriented.

The pounding continues.

There’s enough light behind the silhouette in the window that Zayn immediately recognizes Wade hanging from a rope. Outside his window. Alright.

“What do you want?” Zayn asks, unlatching the window and stepping back.

“I didn’t think these windows actually opened,” Wade comments, letting himself in. “Like hotel rooms. I mean, it’s a convenient plot device, but it doesn’t seem entirely practical since there aren’t screens. People don’t open their windows if there aren’t screens.”

“Hello, Wade, nice to see you too,” Zayn tries, rolling his eyes.

“Hello, baby boy,” Wade says, pulling the window shut behind him. He digs around for his dimensional storage satchel and opens it, leaving it propped open on the floor.

“You sound chipper,” Zayn comments, going back to sit on the edge of his bed, watching Wade. “If anything crawls out of that and hides in my room, I’m going to fucking murder you.”

“I’d love to see you try,” Wade says, eyes going wide as he looks at Zayn. He sounds ecstatic. “It’d be _so_ fucking sexy to see you try.”

“You’re impossible,” Zayn says, absolutely failing to disguise the amusement in his voice. It’s late, he’s tired. He can’t help how he reacts to Wade’s teasing.

“I am,” Wade agrees, unstrapping his guns one by one and dropping them in the satchel. “Okay, so I was out, right? I was out and I was apprehending some bad guys. I’m doing great, since I’m Deadpool and all, but I’m distracted.”

Wade pauses, Zayn nods tiredly.

Wade resumes his deweaponization, “I accidentally killed this dude, right?”

It’s probably terrible that the admission doesn’t get much of a response out of Zayn, but it’s Wade, he’s used to it. Zayn watches him pat down various utility belt pouches before he unstraps it.

“I’ve been so good about not killing!” Wade goes on, dropping his belt and kicking at the satchel until it falls in. “I’ve been trying so hard, but I’m so distracted -- thinkin’ about the other day when you were wearing my shirt and said it wasn’t mine, and then told me to get my shit together.”

Wade looks up at Zayn, hands on his hips.

“It _is_ my shirt,” Zayn volunteers, knowing it’s what Wade wants.

Wade laughs at him, scratchy and weird. “Anyway, I’m distracted,” he says again, shimmying the sword harness off his back and folding it in half before he drops it in. It gets stuck, handles peeking out -- Wade gives it another kick. “And I’m thinking about you, and I just shoot him in the head instead of apprehending him. I feel bad about it, whatever.”

Wade strips his gloves and tosses them in, looking up at Zayn. “So I’m thinking, like what the fuck can I do to get my shit together? I don’t think I’ve ever had my shit together in the history of my entire life, even before the whole deformed and mutated immortal shtick, y’know?”

They’re silent as Wade sits down and starts tugging on his boots. Once they’re off, he sits there with his legs crossed.

“Remember I took that job five-ish months into us dating?” he asks, seeming out of nowhere, putting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his palm, staring up at Zayn.

“The last one before you dumped me?” Zayn sighs.

“Yeah, sorry,” Wade says, sounding more distant than apologetic, but Zayn isn’t awake enough to care that much. “So I’m off on this mission, right? There’s this wicked cute alien, or maybe they were a demon -- I don’t know -- either way, they were trying really fucking hard to get into my suit -- pun entirely intended --”

“Wade.” Zayn winces, wondering where the fuck this story could be going. He might try to murder Wade after all.

Wade nods, and stands, and starts pacing. “‘Course there’s some back and forth because they’re my client and I’m not trying to get a laser beam through my head before the job is done, but they say something about wanting me to keep my mask on, right?”

Zayn’s nose wrinkles in disgust, but Wade doesn’t seem to catch it.

“And I was like, hey now, first off I’m flattered,” he continues. “But I’ve got someone at home who wants to fuck me _without a mask_ , plus he's hot as fuck and it doesn’t matter what shade of red a person-slash-alien-slash-demon is, I’m not downgrading --”

“ _Wade_.” There’s a smile tempting the corner of Zayn’s mouth, but he refuses to whilst Wade is talking about… whatever this is.

“You know what they said?” Wade asks. Assuming it’s rhetorical, Zayn doesn’t respond. “Guess, Zayn.”

“Don’t use my name, you weirdo,” Zayn mutters. It’s been ages since Wade’s used his name. Usually it’s all _baby boy_ this, and _Zee_ that. “I can’t guess, please tell me.”

“They said: ‘damn that must be love because you’re ugly as fuck, DP.’”

“Wade --”

“ _Verbatim_ ,” Wade says, steamrolling over Zayn’s weak interruption. “And then I had that word stuck in my head, and it fucked me up. And I don’t even have a good excuse -- I just thought like… If I felt like this and you didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to stand it. And if you did feel like this, what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

“You’re supposed to be happy about that,” Zayn says quietly. So quietly he isn’t sure Wade hears, but Wade goes completely still.

“That’s reasonable,” Wade says, like it didn’t even occur to him.

Zayn has no idea why he has such strong feelings for someone so emotionally inept, but here he is. Worst part is, he really wants it. He wants Wade to understand. He wants Wade to figure it out.

If not for Zayn, for someone else who can love him and make him happy.

Or whatever.

They stare at each other for a moment before looking away. Wade sighs and unstraps his ankle knife, tossing it into the satchel.

“Are you going to find all that again?” Zayn asks, when he think Wade’s done.

“Yes,” Wade replies, and shoves his pants off.

“ _Wade_ ,” Zayn groans.

“What?” Wade unstraps his top and wiggles out of it, leather creaking and protesting as he pulls it off. Eventually that’s in the bag as well, and Wade’s stood there in his mask and Spider-Man pants.

“Mask _and_ the wall crawler?” Zayn scoffs, ignoring the way his cheeks have gone warm. “You’re doin’ great, DP.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Wade says, looking down at himself. “You know, there’s a universe where you love Spidey. Like _love_ \--”

“And in this one I get jealous of your massive stiffy for him,” Zayn says flatly.

“I admire his work!” Wade protests.

“Is this what you came to talk to me about?” Zayn asks. “Like you figured out you were in love with me, panicked, and dumped me. Now you can’t stop thinking about it? Or me, maybe?”

Wade stares at him. “Oh!” he says, like he just remembered. If this were a comic, Zayn would fully expect a lightbulb to pop up over his head. “That’s definitely not _it_ \-- do you want me to like, find a pair of shorts to cover Spider-Man’s face, or are you okay with this?”

“You’re stood in the middle of my bedroom mostly naked,” Zayn says. “Spider-Man isn’t what I’m focusing on.” Zayn’s focusing on the obscene taper from Wade’s wide shoulders to his waist, the toned vee that defines the bottoms of his hips. His thighs are so bloody thick --

Zayn looks at the mask. Wade’s definitely grinning at him.

“Carry on.”

“Okay.” Wade sounds smug, but then he sobers up. “I didn’t get it at all. Not even a little bit. I mean I knew why I wanted you, _duh_ , but you? I can barely rationalize anything, so that was _completely_ out of my grasp.”

Zayn’s heart twists in his chest.

“But,” Wade brightens up. “Hero worship is totally a thing! Who _doesn’t_ want their favorite superhero to fold them in half and fuck them until they cry? You know how I feel about Wolverine --”

“And you thought that was it for me,” Zayn interrupts. Wade blinks at him. There’s a knot in Zayn’s chest that’s hard to breathe around. “You didn’t bother like, asking me why I wanted to be with you. Or if I was serious about you.”

“I know,” Wade agrees. “But I keep thinking about it -- about _you_ \-- and then I saw your tweet, and ran like two miles to get to you, and then I saw you in my _jacket_. I just --” Wade cuts himself off abruptly, frowning sharply at Zayn. “You’re not wearing my clothes.”

“What?” Zayn asks, bewildered.

“That’s the -- that’s the whole thing like,” Wade gestures at Zayn’s entirety. “That’s the trope.”

“The… trope,” Zayn repeats slowly.

“Yeah, y’know, a significant or reoccuring theme in media,” Wade says. He’s still frowning. “Only it’s more like, the entire _structure_ of our interactions is based on a very specific, well known _formula_. That formula is the trope.”

Zayn stares at him.

Wade sighs heavily. “You’re supposed to be wearing something of mine.”

“Oh,” Zayn looks down at his lap, feeling himself flush.

“I don’t really know what to do if you’re not,” Wade says. He seems genuinely confused. “Maybe this is the wrong time? Maybe I should leave and come back another time? _Then_ you’ll be wearing my clothes? We can’t make any emotional progress unless we adhere to the formula.”

“Feeling a bit manic, love?” Zayn asks softly.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Wade says. “You know how I get when I kill people. Like that job I took in Mombasa when we first started dating.”

“That was mad,” Zayn agrees. Wade was riding high for days and wouldn’t tell Zayn why. Guess he thought Zayn wouldn’t react well to the whole mercenary aspect of Wade being a mercenary and didn’t want to ruin anything.

“And there’s so much emotional exposition,” Wade adds. “It’s better if I’m riding an adrenaline rush, right? Makes me more prone to spitting it out.”

“True,” Zayn agrees, letting himself smile.

“Except obviously this isn’t the time. You’re not wearing my clothes.”

“Hypothetically,” Zayn starts, biting his bottom lip. “If I were wearing like, pants with a certain print on them that pertained to you, would that count?”

“Similar to my Spidey undies?” Wade asks, sounding thrilled.

“But with a much more appealing superhuman, of course,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes.

There’s no warning at all before Wade unstraps his mask and tosses it at the satchel. It lands on the edge before tipping all the way in. Zayn watches the white eye holes as it disappears before blinking up at Wade’s face.

“It’s probably a little weak, but hell I’ll take it,” Wade says, grinning at Zayn. He strides across the room and sinks to his knees in front of Zayn.

Zayn’s heart is pounding so hard, he thinks he might choke on it, or pass out, or choke on it then pass out. Wade’s right there, looking at Zayn shyly.

His face is _right there_.

They stare at each other for a moment, neither of them saying anything. There are so many feelings pushing themselves to the top of Zayn’s lungs, he can barely breathe. He feels like sobbing, or laughing loudly, anything to get rid of the overwhelming pressure.

“Can I see?” Wade asks after a moment, wiggling his eyebrows.

Zayn scoffs weakly, but tugs the waistband up, shoving his joggers down just enough for Wade to see the red DEADPOOL across the top of his pants.

“Missed me?” Wade reaches out and tickles the top of Zayn’s knee, making Zayn go even more warm.

“Maybe,” Zayn admits, reaching out to touch Wade’s cheek.

Wade goes still, eyes darting to the ground as Zayn rubs his thumb over the rough, wrecked skin. He traces Wade’s cheekbone and his jaw, the chewed up curve of his ear. He can’t stop touching, can’t stop watching the kaleidoscope of scarring and blistering, feeling it shift under his fingertips.

Tension eases out of him softly, like it was never there in the first place. Like they haven’t spent the last couple of weeks chasing their own tails about this _thing_ between them. It feels good, like maybe they’re back on level ground.

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing clothes?” Zayn asks in a whisper.

“I was supposed to stop at gloves and take my mask off,” Wade whispers back. “But I panicked and kept going.”

A loud laugh tears out of Zayn before he can stop it, honest and heady. Wade grins at him, brown eyes soft and so warm, and Zayn thinks, _there you are_ before leaning down to kiss him.

 

 

**& one.**

# _Zeadpool  
_ 152k tweets

All thanks to Wade’s impromptu interview with some YouTuber, “Ashley Smashley,” at the scene of a crime. They’re a moderately well known Youtuber, according to Twitter. Also according to Twitter, the video they posted is the best thing to happen in the year 2020... Or _ever_.

Wade is the only one in the shot, stood on the street corner eating a hot dog, mask peeled up over his nose. Carnage lies behind him -- mild carnage, really, compared to 2012’s alien invasion, but it’s not pretty either way.

Definitely one of those busts that will have to be dismissed with an exasperated, “ _it’s Deadpool_ ,” considering the mess he’s left behind. Apprehended suspects? Yes. But there are also flipped cars, and toppled light poles, and an overturned hot dog car, and no less than two thoroughly wrecked bus stop benches.

There’s trash everywhere, rubble from wherever. Maybe a fire, if Zayn’s seeing smoke like he thinks he is. All he hopes is that Wade isn’t eating the hot dog off the ground. Everything else is standard Deadpool.

‘Cept for the piece of official ZAYN merchandise Wade is wearing.

A shirt. Over top of his suit. One of Zayn’s new ones, even -- Zayn’s name in Urdu down the side of a black t-shirt, script in silver holographic material. They just put design up in anticipation of the album. Something to get the fans excited, etcetera.

It looks great on camera, Zayn notes happily, as Wade tells the Youtuber all about the crime. It’s definitely embellished, but Zayn’s impressed by the cohesion of the story -- it’s not _overly_ apparent that he’s lying to make himself look…

Well, Zayn can’t say _better_ because Wade doesn’t give a shit about how people perceive him, especially not random YouTube subscribers, but Wade had to know it’d get into greater circulation. Zayn can’t actually tell if Wade’s down playing the distasteful bits, or if he’s gotten less distasteful with the way he handles bad guys. Maybe the character development is real.

Either way, he’s charming and Zayn watches it with a grin on his face, stomach warm as Ashley Smashley asks about the shirt.

“Oh, this old thing?” Wade scoffs, waving his hot dog around. A bit of mustard flies off and hits the camera, but no one does anything about it. “Just something I found lying around Zayn’s last time I was there. Pretty great, huh? Zee-three set to drop in the fall. Pre-order soon!”

 _Not an obvious boyfriend promo, not at all_ , Zayn thinks to himself, laughing.

“Do you hang out with Zayn a lot?” Ashley sounds surprised, and very excited. Zayn recognizes the high pitched edge to their voice that means there’s some bit of fan in there.

“I have to see him once a day,” Wade sighs. He reaches out and wipes the camera lens, smearing yellow down the whole side. “Or else I get moody.”

“That seems… frequent,” Ashley says, clearing their throat.

“Well you know, I take what I can get.” Wade stuffs the rest of the hot dog in his mouth and tosses the wrapper towards the overturned food cart. Zayn spares a moment to wonder where the owner is and realizes there aren’t even cops around. The YouTuber must have caught Wade right after the bust. “But he’s good to me.”

“Would you consider Zayn your friend?” Ashley asks. The high pitched edge is back.

“A dear friend,” Wade agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “A partner, even. Very close to me, and my heart... And my boner.”

Zayn chokes on a laugh, thinking about how many people in the world have seen this by now. It’ll probably Ashley Smashley’s highest viewed video for the rest of their YouTuber career. Zayn will never live it down with anyone he knows. How thrilling.

Wade leans over Zayn’s shoulder and taps Zayn’s phone screen to pause.

“I can’t believe you outed us on YouTube,” Zayn says, pretending to be annoyed as Wade comes around the arm of the couch and drops onto the other end, spreading his legs invitingly.

Zayn rolls his eyes, but fits himself between them anyway, slumping against Wade heavily. Wade's warm and mostly comfortable, and he hums Still Got Time whilst he tip toes his fingers down Zayn’s chest -- and Zayn’s very normal shirt that he bought himself

Wade seems to realize this too. “You’re not wearing my clothes,” he says. It sounds like he’s pouting.

“Nope.” Zayn shrugs, shivering as Wade sneaks his hand under the hem of Zayn’s shirt, playing with Zayn’s happy trail. “Can’t live in your clothes, love. You’re wearing mine though.”

“Even put it back on after I took off the suit,” Wade says, pressing a kiss to Zayn’s neck before nipping it gently. Warmth curls up at the bottom of Zayn’s spine as he curls into Wade more. Wade gets the hint and wraps his arms around Zayn, squeezing a bit. “No Deadpool suit in the house. Shared clothes only.”

“That’s my favorite trope,” Zayn laughs.

Wade bites at Zayn’s neck again, harder this time. “Mine too, baby boy. Mine too.”

**Author's Note:**

> support your local rarepair writer and [reblog on tumblr!](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/170527980442/for-1drarepairfest-and-robynzain-ship-zayn)


End file.
